Homeless
by Dairire
Summary: "Maybe one thousand six hundred and sixty five steps closer to everyone she's ever loved and she'll be able to breathe."


_I published my first ever story on FanFiction on the 11th of December 2009 and I had a story written to pay tribute to the site that's given me dreams and friends. But, sadly, my grandfather passed away on the 11th and the story was discarded. Instead you have this, my tribute to a man who's been there for all of my story. __You'll be missed Granddad. Love Always._

_"I think of happy when I think of you,_

_So I hope you're happy wherever you are."_

**Andrea Gibson**

* * *

And there's this ridiculously long train of thunder threatening clouds, lazily winding its way around the entirety of the planet, the smell of rain echoing in its wake. Pink tinges fill inconsistent nooks and crannies until she's convinced there's a heaven and that she can see it, this little snow globe world running parallel to her's, but maybe not ours.

Suddenly she's back in post war Paris, plumes of smoke drawing shattering coughs from the pit of her stomach. Desolate; the Eiffel tower the only non flattened structure for miles, it's never seemed so majestical and she has to climb to the top. Maybe one thousand six hundred and sixty five steps closer to everyone she's ever loved and she'll be able to breathe.

Another on a growing list of mountains she's yet to climb, Mount Everest, Kilamanjaro, Mount Olympus and she's swaying, praying a gust of wind will blow her away to a parallel world. Or just out of this one. The steps leading to the top of the tower are delicate, if she stamps hard enough she thinks she'll fall right into another gaping abyss. A flower is intricately weaved into the iron of every steps, a name carefully chiselled beneath each rose. Stopping on every step she stands on the rose and rhymes off the prayers she learned when she was five years old shivering in the final pew of a chapel, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white beacons against her skin. On every step there's a different prayer, until she runs out of prayers and strings together her own words for the forgotten strangers. And when she runs out of words all she does is cry, her tears falling through the cavities in the steps.

She's at the last step and she sees the last name and torrent of tears rage from her eyes, mixing with the rain until she doesn't even know if she's crying anymore. The view from the top is stifling, liberated Paris bathed in a sea of devastation. She thinks she hears them calling her, chanting her name from behind the steel bars of the tower. One hand already grasping the metal limbs she's so numb she doesn't even feel the cold. She hears it then, not loves soft sweet song or the fading of those voices but the fall of quiet footsteps to her right, footsteps of a soldier relieved of war. She hesitates and the moments lost but she still turns. And he still smiles.

Then she's back in a dingy flat in North-west London that's covered in knick knacks all with his name. And suddenly, suddenly she's breaking and hacking sobs rack her body, she can't breathe. A hundred hands seek her's, each trying to take the burden of her pain but they don't realise they're trying to steal part of her. "Sh, sh he'll be here soon." their attempts at soothing fall to the ground like leaves fleeing before winter. The honest whispers attack her from all sides and she's never wanted her floods of tears to carry her to safety more. "She's always better when he's around."

Too soon a car pulls into their driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tyres of the car and it's him. There's a sombre atmosphere for a homecoming, but he's home, at last the soldier's home. The silence is so audible that she's breaking again and he's only outside the door. Mustering up all the courage she's never possessed she wipes her tears and clenches her shaking fist, rising the crowd parts before her and she feels like royalty.

The snows twirling in soft reams glowing in the orange burn of the streetlight for a heart beat before nestling among the strands of his hair. The amber light, dim on his face, gives it the seedy, grainy look of a photograph, a drunken memory. But the wisp of a memory escapes and all that's real is his peaceful face. He's better when she's with him.

Where to love?" The drivers coax and it's all she can do to raise her shaking finger and point straight inside to the space the fire's lighting an eerie feeling in. Slowly the procession turn and follow the open coffin into the house as she's left outside.

Alone.


End file.
